


Weaving Magic

by Bdafic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Hair Braiding, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 08:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13783386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bdafic/pseuds/Bdafic
Summary: The first inklings of attraction in an otherwise innocent act.





	Weaving Magic

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this almost two years ago and never finished or posted it. Decided to put it out here because it's not going anywhere otherwise. :D Pre-Roses canon; flirtation and fluff.

_“Ah!”_ Ellana hissed. And swore under her breath when her fingers twisted around another tangled knot. A loop of hair caught on a ragged nail, tearing it to the quick when she jerked her hand downward. The sting from the hangnail only served to stoke her ire; teeth grit in frustration. She’d been struggling to brush her hair out for nearly twenty minutes and gotten no further. 

If anything, the situation had just worsened over that time.

She tried to shake her hand free, but the lingering numbness in her wrist and palm made all her movements clumsy. Like a drunken animal; she felt she had hooves for hands. The best she could manage was to flop her wrist about uselessly, and then accidentally smack herself in the ear hard enough to set it ringing. Now in addition to the pain, her fingers were truly stuck amid the snarls. 

This was _ridiculous_.

With her frustration at a boiling point she gave a final desperate tug and felt the tell-tale snap and sting of hair pulling out at the scalp.

“Fuck!” she yelled, and brought her free hand down hard upon her thigh in fury. The resulting clap echoed through the camp, breaking the silence of an otherwise content and uneventful evening.

Blackwall and Dorian, engaged in their own tasks on either side of a felled log, glanced up in unison. Their brows knit in a mirrored expression of concern and curiosity that melted into wry amusement upon noticing her predicament.

She looked a mess: seated by her tent still half-dressed in her travel leathers, sneering bitterly, with one hand wrapped hopelessly in a mat of tangled curls. Dirt smeared upon her cheeks and neck, as she’d not yet had a chance to bathe since their skirmishes earlier in the day.

Someone snickered, though she could not be sure who. Her ear still rang, and her vision was obscured by the messy fringe. “Oh, stuff it," she bit in the general direction of both of them.

Blackwall snorted, and she fixed him with a glare. It was _him_. "Having a bit of trouble?” he teased. The sword laid across his knees was polished just enough to reflect a bit of the firelight in her eyes as he twisted the pommel, wiping it clean from their earlier skirmish. One more irritating addition to the evening.

"More than a bit," replied Ellana darkly, freeing her hand from her tangled locks with a final, violent tug. She wrinkled her nose at the offending limb, and picked free the hairs she'd inadvertently pulled out. "My hair is a mess and I cannot comb it with my hand like this."

At that, Solas took notice. Lowered the tome he’d been buried in for hours and finally deigned to join the conversation. Normally nothing short of an ambush could pull his attention once he was absorbed. "Are you still troubled by the injury?" he asked. 

Earlier that day, while attempting to close a rift, she had blocked a particularly nasty blow by a Terror that broke her hand. After the battle, as Solas knit the bones back together, he remarked that it was miraculous she'd been able to maintain enough control to finish the fight, given the severity of the fracture. She took the compliment — or at least took the comment _for_ one — though the injury had hurt something awful. 

A session with his healing magic and a potion did wonders for the pain, but even they could only go so far. It would take a few days and at least two more healing sessions for her to regain complete control of her fingers. In the meantime it wasn't so much the lingering soreness, but the numbness, that was causing her the most grief. Until she recovered completely her fine motor skills were shot. And for someone who relied almost exclusively on their archery skills in battle that was particularly vexing.

Though for now she couldn't care less about her skill with a bow

All she wanted to do was _braid her fucking hair_ and get it out of her face for bed.

"I'm in no pain," she grumbled in reply, “In fact, I can’t really feel much of anything — they’re mostly numb.” By example, she held up both her hands and wiggled her fingers back and forth. The ones on the right side moved notably slower. She shook them out, growling in frustration. ”I cannot get anything done this way."

"And what _exactly_ is it you were trying to accomplish?" Solas asked evenly. Innocent enough, but there was the smallest hint of something — amusement? — in his voice that made her narrow her eyes. 

Was he teasing her?

" _Other_ than ripping your hair out, that is," added Blackwall with a grin.

The corner of Solas’ mouth quirked upward. 

Damn him, he _was_ teasing her.

Fixing him with a glare, ”I was trying to braid my hair," she cooly informed.

Dorian sniffed. "And doing an abysmal job of it." He didn't even bother to look up from his book. Idly licking a thumb to turn a page.

“Oh!” Ellana rounded on him. "Was that you offering to do it for me?"

This time he did look at her. Blinked, and pressed an open hand to his chest in mock offence. ”Absolutely not!” He added a quiet, "I'm only half as abysmal,” under his breath as he returned his attention to the novel.

The request was made in jest, but there was still a part of her disappointed that he couldn’t offer any real assistance. All jokes aside, she really did need the help. 

Her eyes passed over the camp and landed on Blackwall next. When he caught her gaze she lifted her brows hopefully, tilting her head in silent plea. He caught on immediately, but raised both his hands and shook his head in disbelief. ”Don't look at me!” he said, and laughed; gesturing to himself as evidence.

Dorian scoffed. “Save your breath,” he added. “I wouldn’t trust that man to shave a nug.”

_Blast it all._

Briefly, she considered asking Solas, but… _no_. It made for an amusing thought, certainly, but no. 

She sighed, defeated. Going to bed this way would only make it all the worse in the morning. It would be days until they made it back to Skyhold and she could finally have a proper bath; soak her hair in oils and have a chance to work it through. If it took that long to properly deal with her hair she’d never get the mats out. She’d have to get someone to cut it off at that rate… _Perish the thought._

It wasn't that she was particularly fussy over her looks or held some great attachment to the locks. Certainly, she enjoyed them. Most of the time. When they behaved, anyway. But she also wasn't terribly fond of the idea of having to shear them off. Moreover, Josephine would never forgive her if she walked back into Skyhold sporting such a rat’s nest and forced her to shave her down to a soldier’s cut.

Another sigh cut the silence, but not hers this time. Glancing up, she watched as Solas placed his book upon the ground and rose to his feet. To her surprise, and confusion, he crossed the camp in several long strides and sat down just behind her.

"I can assist, lethallin," he said. Both hands reached out for the tangled mess, but paused just before he touched her. "May I?"

Too stunned to give a proper answer, she simply nodded once. The offer came as a shock for several reasons — chiefly, the hesitance he’d shown to touch or be touched by others — but she was grateful for it nonetheless.If not a little dubious of his ability to perform such a task. Still, she shifted to face her back to him, and felt him move a little closer before quickly setting to work.

Fingers dove deep into the mess and split it in two, gathering a large section in one hand and combing it through with the other. Carefully easing the tangled knots toward the ends. The task went surprisingly fast. Confident and practiced, he worked through her hair with the ease of someone who had performed this act a thousand times. It made her curious, not for the first time, of what secrets lay in the past of a man with such an eclectic mix of skills and knowledge.

Not even ten minutes elapsed before he had managed to work her hair nearly smooth. Or as close an approximation as one could achieve, in this humidity.

And with minimal pulling and discomfort, too.

“Truly, you’re a man of many talents,” she teased him. As reply he simply hummed, amused, but said nothing.

Once her hair was completely detangled he let it fall loose upon her shoulders and ran his fingers through from root to tip. Slow, and careful — checking for any missed knots. Though the act was nothing more than utilitarian, something about it felt… _intimate_. More than just the innate vulnerability of having another person perform such an act. Something else was wrapped up in the way his fingers pulled at her scalp, just a little, and made her skin tingle. Itwent beyond a feeling of nostalgia for her Dalish roots: when groups of young men and women would sit in circles around a fireside listening to the Keeper talk. Weaving braids and complicated loops, only to shake them out and start again. This felt different. This made her want to close her eyes and lean into his hands. Made her feel a little warmer than just the fire could be responsible for.

His hands were gentle, and soft, as he cradled the back of her head to turn it this way and that. Assuring he found each section of her hair to comb it clear. Fingers curled inward slightly so his nails would only barely touch sensitive skin. Not quite careful enough, it seemed, as he still managed to nick her a few times. A little scratch from a finger unintentionally dragged across the inside of her neck.

Though she didn’t exactly mind.

If anything, it was becoming distracting how much she enjoyed the sensation. Very, _very_ distracting.

_This is ridiculous_ , a distant part of her scolded, to be so easily undone by such an innocent touch. But… outside the clans casual physical affection was rare: humans weren’t inclined to stroke and hug their fellows, and she was half-starved for it after so long living apart from them.

_Half-starved for him_ , a fleeting fantasy begged, and she quickly pushed it aside.

Ridiculous.

But the attempt to suppress it was not quite as successful as she might have hoped. And the next time his fingernail dragged against her skin she couldn’t help herself: her eyes fluttered, and slipped closed, and in spite of her best effort to stifle it a quiet little sound of pleasure slipped from her lips.

His motions stuttered, then came to a halt. Instantly she felt her face flush. There was no way he’d not heard it. 

The next few seconds of silence that followed were _painful._

She wanted to make a joke about his hidden talents or nimble fingers to dissolve the tension. Something. _Anything._ But each attempt died on her tongue before she managed to speak it aloud. Somehow, everything that came to mind was rife with innuendo. And while they’d flirted playfully in the past, to do so now felt like playing with fire. 

This was nothing to him, certainly. A favour for a friend. A simple act of assistance. Solas was anything if not patient, and helpful; he’d do this for anyone. She’d not sully it by underlining the awkward, one-sided, sexual tension she harboured.

But… then she felt his fingers slide toward the curl by her ear. A unique, stubborn, section of her wavy hair that always managed to work itself into a little corkscrew. Normally hidden, only seen if she wore her hair up and it had fallen free of a tie. Or now, as he had brushed most of her hair to one side and gathered it together, failing to catch that one terrible piece.

She wanted to make an insipid comment about it: how annoying it was, how she’d always meant to cut it off, how troublesome. But once more something stilled her tongue, and made her wait.

Cautiously, he took hold of the lock between index and middle fingers. Running them along its length. A curious and indulgent exploration; as though he was enamoured by the discovery.Then, the back of his knuckles brushed against her ear, just for a second, as he twisted them around the errant curl, following it to its tip.

And all of a sudden the touch didn’t feel quite as innocent as it had before.

Even less, when he carefully tucked the curl behind her ear, and allowed his little finger to skim across the point. Following the curve downward. Lingering just long enough to give her no doubt that had been deliberate. If not… _careful._ Like a question, asked without the need of words.

_May I?_

So she leaned into it, just a little, and then reached up to ghost her fingers along the path his had taken. Brushing against his own, as they idled there. 

She could not hide the shiver it sent through her, when their hands met.

The touch seemed to snap him back to attention. He stiffened, pulling away from her, and cleared his throat. “Your oils?” 

Just like that it was over.

It took her a second to recover enough to find words. "My... what?"

"Oils," he repeated. Then coughed, to clear a rasp from his voice. "The oils you use on your hair.I assume you brought them?"

She had, though it was not something that she had ever mentioned to him before. Hair care was not a topic typically discussed while trekking through the woods looking for rifts. Josephine had gifted her a small set of fragrant oils she often used to smooth her hair after bathing. The scents would linger for hours after; it was a luxury she’d quite enjoyed since receiving them. 

There was something very pleasing about the fact he’d taken notice.

“I—yes,” she replied, “They're in my pack. The pocket on the left side, by the tankard." She gestured vaguely to her bag that sat against a nearby tree. Solas stood to retrieve it, returning a moment later to his position behind her with a little amber vial in hand. There came a faint _pop_ as he removed the cork stopper and then a sharp scent filled the air as he applied the oil to his hands and rubbed them together to warm and activate it. One more act of familiarity with the process to add to his mystery. 

Of the two fragrances she’d had in her pack, he chose the citrus. Something she was sure to make a note of upon hearing him inhale deeply.

He smoothed it over the outermost layer of her hair in quick, sure, motions; working it through the ends, then began to separate it into sections. Taking time to wrap each one around his fingers and twisting it in upon itself until he had it all split it into quarters, then eighths. He took hold of one and gently turned her head to the same side. Starting a weave from the root by her temples and the base of her neck. Though she had no mirror to see precisely what he was doing, the motions felt unlike any of those her clan-mates had used to braid her hair in the past. It was a technique wholly unfamiliar to her, and as he worked it became apparent she wasn't the only one left impressed by it.

"My, you're rather good at that, aren't you?" commented Dorian. The book he’d been reading was now rest, closed, upon his lap. No longer near as interesting as the scene unfolding before him. When Solas offered only silence in response, Dorian pushed him a little further. "Wherever did you learn to do that? And don't give me any of that Fade nonsense, you have clearly done this before."

Solas gave him a sidelong glance. "I did not always look like this,” he replied.

Dorian's brows went up, decidedly impressed. 

The answer even sparked Blackwall’s interest. He barked a laugh, teasing, "Will you do me next?"

“Was your hand also recently broken?” countered Solas, tucking one finished braid under the strap of Ellana’s leather vest to hold it in place before he started another.

"No," admitted the warden. "But I want to look pretty, too."

Dorian laughed. ”It would take far more than a braid to accomplish that, I assure you," he said. Then tapped his chin and mused, “Though maybe if we added some ribbons…” 

From there, the commentary dissolved into the two taking good-natured shots at each other: Dorian for his attitude and Blackwall for his hygiene. They quickly lost interest in the curious scene in lieu of the fun of finding the better insult.

In a few more minutes Solas had finished his work, securing the braids he’d wove together with a tied leather thong. He lingered there, seated behind her, for just a moment longer than a friend might have. 

Or maybe she’d just imagined it. 

_Hoped for it._

She tried to suppress the thought as she turned a glance over one shoulder and caught his eye. “Thank you. I’m sure it looks lovely.” She ran her palm lightly along the plaits to feel the texture: in lieu of a proper mirror, that would have to do.

He smiled, and it was such a natural thing that it made her heart leap. Honing in on the way his lips pursed for a fraction of a second just before they curled upward. Like he’d almost had something to say in reply, but decided against it the second before he spoke it aloud. Chose to hold her gaze instead.

It was almost too intense to bear, his look. And she suddenly too hot beneath it. Struggling to chase away the frisson of desire that prickled beneath her skin and brought to mind the _absolutely inappropriate_ thought of straddling his lap and sucking his lower lip between her teeth.

She felt the heat begin to rise in her cheeks and glanced away, lest he notice. Coughed, and, “I may have to call upon your skills in the future,” she said.

There was a quiet laugh as he rose to his feet, and an even quieter, “I would like that,” before he crossed the camp and returned to his previous seat by the fire.

It might have been her imagination — was _probably_ her imagination — but she could swear his cheeks looked flushed in the firelight as he retrieved his book.

When she looked away, she felt a single curl bounce against the back of her ear. He’d left it out.

 

*

 

Poor rationing meant they shared tents that journey; Blackwall with Solas, and Ellana with Dorian. Normally evenings were a quiet ritual with little fanfare, but after she dressed down for sleep and entered the tent to bunk in for the night she found Dorian still wide awake. Propped on an elbow over an open book but looking at her expectantly with a half-cocked smile on his face. As though he’d set a meeting she was late for.

“What?” she whispered, when the look followed her down into bed.

“You,” he accused quietly. Grinning at her. “You _like_ him, don’t you?”

It was terrible, the way her body betrayed her. She made the bed with the threadbare blanket in effort to hide the flush that crept into her face. Suddenly wishing she’d kept her hair down to better hide herself. “I like all of my friends, Dorian. You the least.”

“You wound me,” he quipped, and then teased in a song-song tune, “ _But that wasn’t a denial._ ”

She didn’t bother to try and find an answer for that. Instead, rolled herself into the bed and turned away. Clutching the blanket up to her neck. 

“ _Goodnight,_ Dorian.”

He went back to his book and the tent fell silent. But only for a moment before he thought to offer a sly reply: “If it’s any consolation, I’m fairly sure he likes you too.”

She would not respond to that.

_She would not respond to that._

And definitely not think about the way his lips curled when he smiled at her earlier.

Or how they might feel brushed up against her own, as she tasted his kiss.

_Damn it all._

“Sweet dreams, my dear.”


End file.
